fpirit, which (as Shakespeare faid of his anceftor) were wont to fet the table in a roar !

EUGENIUS was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend was broken; he fqueezed his hand,and then walked foftly out of the room, weeping as he walked. Yorick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the door-he then clofed them,- and never opened them more.

He lies buried in a corner of his church-yard, under a plain marble flab, which his friend Eugenius, by leave of his executors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these three words of infcription; ferving both for his epitaph. and elegy.

Alas, poor YORICK!

TEN times a day has Yorick's ghoft the confolation to hear his monumental infeription read over with fuch a variety of plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and efteen for him a footway croffing the church-yard clofe by his grave, not a paffenger goes by without ftopping to caft a look on it, and fighing as he walks on,

Alas, poor YORICK!

CHAP. III.

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

PITY the forrows of a poor old man,

STERNE.

Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief! and Heaven will blefs

your ftore.

These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
Thefe hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rifing ground

With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a refidence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor !
Here, as I crav'd a morfel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,
To feek a fhelter in an humbler fhed.

Oh! take me to your hofpitable dome;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miferably old.

Should I reveal the fources of my grief,
If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breaft,

Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of Pity would not be represt.

you

fee;

Heaven fends misfortunes; why fhould we repine?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state
And your condition may be foon like mine,
The child of Sorrow, and of Mifery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

'Then like the lark I fprightly hail'd the morn;
But ah! oppreffion forc'd me from my cot,

My
cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in fcanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, fweet foother of my care!
Struck with fad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, lingering fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the forrows of a poor old man,

Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whofe days are dwindled to the fhorteft fpan,

Oh! give relief! and Heaven will bless

your ftore.

CHAP. IV.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF AN UNFORTU

WH

NATE LADY.

HAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ?
'Tis he!but why that bleeding bofom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous! ever friendly tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too, firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part ?
Is there no bright reverfion in the sky,
For those who greatly think or bravely die?

Why bade ye elfe, ye pow'rs! her foul afpire.
Above the vulgar flight of low defire?
Ambition first fprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breafts of Kings and Heroes glows..
Moft fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years.
Useless, unseen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eastern kings a lazy ftate they keep,..
And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.

From thefe perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying fky.oni
As into air the purer fpirits flow, s

And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;

So flew the foul to its congenial place,

Nor left one virtue to redeem her race,

*་

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood!-
See on thefe ruby lips the trembling breath,
Thefe cheeks, now fading at the blast of death:
Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before,..
And thofe love-darting eyes muft roll no more.
Thus, if Eternal Juftice rules the ball,

Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fedden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearfes fhall befiege your gates.
There paffengers fhall ftand, and pointing fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way).
Lo! thefe were they, whofe fouls the Furies fteeld,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.s.c
Thus unlamented pafs the proud away,

The gaze of foole, and pageant of a day! !6 citov
So perish all, whofe breaft ne'er learn'd to glow 154
For others good, or melt at others woe.
What can atone (oh ever-injur'dishade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friends complaint, no kind domestic tearc's sl
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closid,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, in t
By strangers honour'd, and by ftrangers mourn'dark
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear, Phi :
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,' ».'?
And bear about the mockery of woe Do 02

uu?

To midnight dances and the public-fhow; -kont now ca What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,pra Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face

What

What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,

Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.
- So peaceful refts, without a ftone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
Á heap of duft alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themselves must fall like thofe they fung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his clofing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,

The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

CHAP. V.

MORNING HYM N.

THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty thine this univerfal frame,

POPE.

Thus wond'rous fair! thyfelf how wond'rous then!
Unfpeakable! who fitt'ft above thefe heav'ns,
To us invifible, or dimly feen

In thefe thy lowlieft works: yet thefe declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with fongs